And trying to decide if the author was the killer.
Despite his sometimes provocative attitude in print, Alan wasn’t a big fan of conspiracy theories, so his natural inclination was to believe that the note had been written by the killer. It was the simplest explanation, and it made sense to him. What didn’t make sense was that someone in town knew who the killer was and had done nothing to stop him.
Unless that someone was very, very afraid.
And if that was the case… how could Alan flush him or her out of hiding?
It would be such a coup. And stop the killings, of course.
But how to bring that person, if he or she existed, out of the woodwork?
Musing over that question, Alan left the original of the note securely locked in his desk, but took the copy with him when he left the office-a bit early-for the day. He didn’t go straight home but stopped by the town-hall building, which had become the unofficial hangout for most members of the media.
There were quite a few hanging around, but most were talking companionably, with the relaxed posture that came of having passed the deadline for the six o’clock news. The pressure was off, at least for most of them and for the moment.
Dana Earley, the only blond female in the bunch, was also the most obviously tense. Understandably. She was also the only TV reporter still present today, and kept her cameraman close.
Alan doubted it was because she liked the guy, who was skinny, clearly bored, and appeared to be about seventeen.
Some protection he’d be, Alan thought.
“You,” Dana said to him, “are looking far too smug. What do you know that the rest of us don’t?”
“Oh, come on, Dana. You think I want a Columbia TV station to scoop me?”
Her brows disappeared up under her bangs. “Scoop you? What old movies have you been watching?”
Refusing the bait, Alan merely said, “It’ll be dark soon. I think if I were a blond TV reporter, I’d want to be inside. Behind a locked door. With a gun. Or at least some muscle.” He eyed the cameraman sardonically.
“I hear you have some muscle of your own,” she retorted. “Police muscle. Sleeping with a cop, Alan?”
“If I am, it’s hardly newsworthy,” he said dryly, showing no outward sign of an inward flinch. Mallory was not going to like it if this news was common knowledge, dammit. “Unless your station prefers tabloid gossip over substantive news.”
“Don’t sound so superior. You were the first print journalist to use the phrase serial killer, and however you intended it, it sounded gleeful and excited in your article.”
“It did not,” he found himself countering irritably.
“Go back and read it again.” She tucked an errant strand of blond hair behind her ear, smiled at him gently, and wandered off toward a magazine journalist here to research serial killers.
“Here you go, Alan.”
He jumped, and frowned at Paige Gilbert, who was holding out a tissue to him.
“Jesus, don’t sneak up on people. And what’s that?”
“I thought you might need it. For the spit in your eye.”
For just an instant, he was blank, but then he glanced after Dana and scowled as he looked back at the radio reporter. “Ha ha. She was just being all superior because she’s a talking head on the six o’clock news.”
“Not today she wasn’t,” Paige murmured.
“None of us has had much to report today,” he reminded her.
“True. But you might as well have canary feathers smeared all around your mouth. Come on, Alan, give it up. You know we’ll find out sooner or later.”
Alan made a mental note to stop playing poker with Rafe and a few other of their friends; obviously, his serious lack of a poker face was why he had lost so much imaginary money to them.
“I’m done for the day,” he informed Paige. “And even though this is your first really big story, if you want some advice from a veteran, you should go home and get some sleep as well. You never know when you’ll get that call that pulls you out of bed at two in the morning.”
Paige gazed after him, then jumped slightly herself when Dana said at her elbow, “He knows something.”
“Yeah,” Paige said. “But what?”
The rented car she and Isabel were sharing was parked near Caleb Powell’s law office, so Hollis was able to make it that far. Once locked inside, though, engine and air-conditioning running, she sat behind the wheel and watched her hands shake.
Bishop had warned her that until she learned to fully control her abilities, the door that devastating trauma had created or activated in her mind was likely to open up unexpectedly. And that the experiences were apt to be particularly powerful ones in the midst of a murder investigation when several people had died recently and violently.
But all the months spent in the relative peace of Quantico, learning how to be an investigator, learning about the SCU, plus learning all the exercises in concentration, meditation, and control, had given her a false sense of security.
She had thought she was ready for this.
She wasn’t.
First seeing Jamie Brower in the conference room, and now this. Seeing Tricia Kane standing near the desk where she had worked in life, less clearly visible than Jamie had been, oddly dreamlike but obviously trying to say something Hollis hadn’t been able to hear.
Why couldn’t she hear them? Before, it had been a voice in her head and only the sense of a presence, at least until the very end. Not… this. Not these misty images of people-souls-trapped between worlds. No longer alive, but not yet gone, standing in the doorway between this life and the next, the doorway Hollis’s own traitorous mind kept opening for them. Talking to her.
Trying to talk to her.
Hollis hadn’t expected this.
Not this.
She didn’t know how to cope with this. She didn’t know if she wanted to even try to learn to cope.
She wanted to run, that’s what she wanted to do. Run and hide, from the dead and from-
The ringing demand of her cell phone jarred her from the panic, and she took a deep breath to try and steady her voice before she answered it. “Templeton.”
“What happened?” Isabel asked without preamble.
“I checked out Tricia Kane’s office, but-”
“No, Hollis. What happened?”
She’d already had a few unsettling experiences with other SCU members and their easy connections with one another, so Isabel’s obvious awareness of Hollis’s state of mind didn’t surprise her all that much. It still unsettled her, however.
“I saw Tricia Kane,” she said finally, baldly.
“Did she tell you anything?” Isabel’s voice was calm.
“She tried. I couldn’t hear her. Like before.”
“How long did it last?”
Hollis had to stop and think about that. “Not long. Not as long as in the conference room. And not as clear. She was… the image was fainter. Wispy. And it didn’t feel as spooky.”
“Powell didn’t notice anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re out of the office now?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. It’s getting late. Why don’t you go back to the inn and soak in the tub, have a hot shower, something like that. Relax. Order a pizza. Watch something mind-numbing on TV for a while.”
“Isabel-”
“Hollis, trust me. Take the time while you can, and chill. Just chill. Sleep if you can. Don’t think too much. We’re just getting started here, and it’s only going to get harder.”
“I have to learn how to handle this.”
“Yes. But you don’t have to learn everything today. Today you just have to get some rest and get centered again. That’s all. I’ll be back at the inn myself in a couple of hours. I’ll check, see if you feel like company. If not, that’s cool, I’ll see you at breakfast. But if you want to talk, I’ll be there. Okay?”